by Kyra Davis
“Jesus.”
I glance up, ready to see the judgment, but all I see is amusement. “Like I said, it’s not a big deal,” I say again. “Some of these guys just want to talk. It ends up being, like, a miniature therapy session. They’ll even ask for advice on how to pick up girls.”
“But none of these guys want you to talk dirty about . . . normal sex?”
“First of all, I’m not really sure I believe there is such a thing as normal sex. I’m not even sure I believe in the word normal at all, but yeah, okay,” I say, momentarily distracted by a spider slowly making its descent from the ceiling. “I do have a few clients who just want the straight-up dirty talk. The thing is, all these guys, regardless of their preferences, all really want the same thing, and once you figure out what that is, well the whole thing stops feeling so weird.”
Brad cocks his head to the side, and for a second I imagine putting my lips right there, where the tendons of his neck are pulled taut, tasting his skin. “What’s the thing they’re looking for?” he asks, his voice so low and so quiet I feel the vibrations of his words more than I hear them.
I blush again and turn my attention back to the drums. “They want to feel wanted.” I silently roll the wooden stick over the taut membrane of the instrument. “Every single one of us wants to feel wanted. But some of us . . . I mean some of them . . . well, they’re just not. They’re the unwanted.” I lift the stick to the cymbal, careful now to avoid Brad’s eyes. “So these guys, they pay a few bucks to some 900 number, and for the space of a phone call they can pretend that there is someone out there who is . . . you know . . . excited about them, who is passionate about them, someone who wants them.” I sigh and get up from the stool. “I don’t mind facilitating that fantasy.” There’s so much more I could say. I could tell Brad how very familiar I am with different versions of that fantasy. I could tell him how much I relate to the longings of my invisible clients. But I won’t. I don’t want to admit that at twenty-two I’m totally floored that I’ve finally found someone who wants to be my boyfriend. No, I don’t want to tell him how much I have in common with the men who ask me to lisp false praise and passion into the phone. No need to let him know that I’m quite that pathetic.
Brad’s quiet for a moment, then wraps his hand around the other end of one of the drumsticks I’m holding but doesn’t pull it away from me. He’s so close to me now, if I move even a little my arm will brush against his and . . . and it’s like he’s holding my hand without even touching me, like we’re connected through the tools of his music. “You see the world differently than anyone else I’ve ever met,” he says softly.
When you’re an outsider you have to. But again, I refrain from articulating the thought.
The door connecting the garage to the house flies open and Traci steps into the rehearsal area, followed by Tonio. “Are we good?” she asks. “Can we get on with this?”
“Yeah.” I let go of the drumstick and hand the other one over. “We’re cool.” I feel Brad’s eyes on me as I walk back up to the microphone. I have to take a second to steady my breathing, which has become inexplicably shallow and quick. “Let’s raise the roof,” I say softly into the mic.
Tonio starts us off with the slow strumming of his guitar and I hold on to the mic with both hands, like it’s a raft. Like we’re all in the deep end of the pool, and I’m the one who doesn’t know how to swim.
CHAPTER 15
BRAD AND I aren’t at one another’s throats anymore, but within minutes Tonio and Traci realize that rehearsal has gained a new kind of tension, most of it stemming from Brad. He quietly, politely suggests we might want to tighten this one stanza in one song and then add another hook to another song that sounds to him like a potential single. We go over and over things in a way we’ve never done before. Traci and Tonio are not loving it, and they’d give Brad the same attitude I was giving him earlier if I didn’t so clearly have his back. And why wouldn’t I? Every time we apply this new kind of focus to one of our songs, it improves. We change a note here, leave room for a little more vocal improvisation there, and all of a sudden we’re playing at a different level. His style is a little contagious, or at least I find it so, because I, too, start pushing for improvements and changes. I start expressing my vision in a way I haven’t before. I’m pulling away from this idea that making music is just about having fun. I keep thinking about how Brad said I’m this light, this star, and I find myself wanting to live up to that outlandish assessment. I sort of want to try to be as good as he thinks I am.
When we’re done, Brad and I walk out together, leaving a sulking Traci to pacify Tonio’s frustrations with a gin and lime.
“They hate me,” Brad mutters, his hands in his pockets.
“Yeah,” I agree, “but try not to take it personally.”
He laughs and shakes his head.
“I like what you add to the group,” I say as a car speeds past us on this residential street. “I think . . . I think maybe I needed you . . . I mean we,” I say, correcting myself quickly. “We need you.”
Brad hesitates a moment before saying quietly, “It’s mutual.”
Even at this early evening hour the birds are singing, adding a little bit of nature to this concrete city. Keeping my eyes on the ground, I walk with him to the sidewalk, where we stop. My car is to the left, Brad’s to the right, but it’s me he turns to. “Would you like to have dinner?”
I feel a spasm in my chest that I try desperately to ignore. “You mean with you and June? I—”
“No,” Brad says, cutting me off. “June is having dinner at her friend’s house so it would just be us.”
Oh God, is he asking me out on a date? I turn my gaze upward as if looking for divine guidance. But no, I’m being silly. Guys like Brad are not interested in girls like me, not to have dinner with anyway. I’m projecting, that’s all. And even that’s bad because, really, I shouldn’t have anything to project.
“I would love to but I have plans with . . . um, my boyfriend.”
“Ah.” Is there a note of sadness there? I try to get a read on him, but now he’s looking past me, his expression close to blank. “Guess it’s just me, then.” Nodding to my car, he asks, “You got your headlights fixed?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“Good, then drive safe.” And then he puts a hand on each of my shoulders and gently pulls me forward. It’s not exactly a hug—his arms aren’t around me—but . . . it’s something. He’s too tall for my head to go over his shoulder, so I find myself resting my cheek against his chest, hearing the rhythm of his heart. “Enjoy your evening, Mercy,” he murmurs, his breath in my hair as he places a single kiss on the top of my head and then releases me and turns to leave.
“Brad?”
He stops, waits without pivoting back to me, turning his head slightly so I can only make out a sliver of his profile. “I just . . .” I swallow hard and take a deep breath. “You know I don’t share Traci and Tonio’s opinions, right? I mean I . . . don’t hate you.”
He turns his head a little more, and now I can see the wry smile on his lips. “I’ll try not to take it personally.”
And then he turns and walks away.
THE NEXT THREE weeks are . . . interesting. I’m seeing Ash once or twice a week, which I guess is normal for an exclusive couple. Oh, and I’ve become incredibly fond of using the word exclusive. Rehearsals are great . . . for me. I can sense a confrontation brewing within the band and I really don’t want a confrontation. My feelings about Tonio are fairly neutral, but Traci’s different. She sort of unwittingly saved my life not too long ago. She’s also the only person other than Ash who I knew in my last life . . . well, knew is an exaggeration. We attended the same junior college and occasionally went to the same parties. We almost never talked, but I noticed her playing the piano at a house party one night. She was good. A few weeks later we ended up in the same small group, all of us leaving a party together on some dude’s suggestion that we go on
a nighttime hike up to some remote little spot he knew, do some shrooms, and find our higher selves. At the time it seemed like an excellent plan.
Traci ended up having a vision. She said she saw musical notes floating around both of us, she said she heard people clapping for us. She explained that we were to be in a band, we would make people happy and inspire them to dance, and we would keep toads for pets.
I remember the part about the toads specifically. Maybe it’s not as elegant as “Riders on the Storm” or as whimsical as “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds,” but it seemed pretty cool at the time.
Anyway, she gave me her number—whether that was before or after we left the party I don’t remember. But I do know that I found it years afterward, just eight months ago now. It was at a time when I was completely and utterly lost. A few months earlier my father had actually published my obituary in the local paper of the little Arizona town my family was currently residing in.
By the time I read it . . . well so much had been lost. I felt dead. And there it was in print on a newspaper clipping that was balanced on the palm of my cold, still hand. The horror was real. Melody was gone. I didn’t exist.
You need a death certificate to publish an obituary, and the fact that he was able to get anyone to publish this thing without it suggests that he paid someone off. And that means my father had put more value on my death than on my life.
It’s a detail I’ve never been able to push aside.
And what exactly do you do when your father pronounces you dead? When all your hopes have been shredded and burned? What do you do when you find that every time you look in the mirror all you see is ugliness?
Or, as Brad would say, a monster. I looked in the mirror and I saw a monster.
Taking a new name, a new identity, that was the easy part. It did help me put some distance between me and the shredded remains of my former life. But still, I was hollow. A girl with no family, no origin, no history. I desperately needed . . . something. Something other than the silence that seemed to follow me everywhere.
And so when I stumbled across that crumpled-up paper at the bottom of the purse I no longer used and saw Traci’s number, I remembered that night on the hill. I remembered her vision, but now I saw it differently. Her hallucination took on the form of a life raft. If I could at least find a way to integrate music into my life in a more tactile way, it would give me my touchstone. It would give me the endurance to breathe.
And Traci remembered so much. She remembered the parties we had been to. She remembered talking to me. She remembered the hike and her visions. She just didn’t remember my name.
When she asked me to repeat it, apologizing for not quite catching it at the beginning of our conversation . . . well, I took that to be the biggest sign of all. I told her my name was Mercy and I wanted to play music with her. She said yes.
With one word she saved my life.
So no, I don’t want to piss Traci off. I don’t want this band to become something she doesn’t recognize.
But I’m beginning to realize, I don’t want to be stagnant, either.
Right after our next gig I try a different approach. I take her hand as we leave the stage and pull her aside, putting distance between us and the men. The wings of the stage are dark and a little musty, but the fading cheers of the crowd out front have given the space a hint of vitality. “Did you see that?”
She looks at me with somewhat impassive eyes. “See what?”
“They loved us!”
“They always love us,” she retorts before yawning loudly.
“This was different. Those rehearsals paid off. This is the best we’ve ever been, and they felt that! It wasn’t just that they were cheering us . . . Some of them, they, like, closed their eyes and really listened. They were . . . they were in awe,” I say, using Brad’s word. I glance over in his direction. He’s trying to talk to Tonio, who seems utterly disinterested.
Traci laughs. “They weren’t in awe. They were high. You remember what that’s like, right?”
“Oh what the hell are you talking about?” I ask, exasperated. “I still get high.”
“Really? When?” She uses both hands to toss her hair back, her go-to gesture when she’s feeling defiant. “It used to be you’d hang out after rehearsal and you’d smoke a doobie with us. Not every time, but most.”
“I just haven’t been in the mood lately.” The sound of the cheering is gone, replaced by the music of a DJ. Brad and Tonio have started moving our instruments and equipment off the stage.
“You haven’t been in the mood since Captain America over there crashed our party.” She shoots Brad a poisonous glare as he carries some of his drums out to his car. “Tell me, are you going to start wearing polo shirts, too? Maybe change your name to Babs or Bethany or something?”
“No, I . . .” I falter as I try to think back. Has it really been that long since I took a hit? When I started my new life, all I swore off was anything that was physically addictive. My coke days are over, and never again will I be chasing the dragon. That’s a definite. But pot? It’s the only easily accessible drug that helps ease my mind when I get that I-want-to-jump-out-of-my-skin feeling. But I guess . . . I guess I just haven’t had that feeling after rehearsals lately. So maybe it has been that long, but . . . oh, wait . . . the smoke-filled kiss.
“I took a hit on New Year’s Eve after our gig.” Tonio has packed up Traci’s keyboard and gestures to us that he’s going to be loading it into the car as he heads out.
“You went home after our gig,” Traci snaps. Then she looks at me again, noting my expression. “You didn’t go home after our gig!” she says slowly. “What did you do?”
“Well, there’s this guy—”
“Wait . . . oh my God.” She grabs my arm. “You found the Antonio Banderas look-alike? You are so good!”
“I did not find a Banderas look-alike,” I say, irritated. Then, looking down at my hands, I add sheepishly, “He’s more of a Johnny Depp type.”
“Better!” she squeals, attracting Brad’s attention as he carries out the rest of his drum set. Traci flashes him an innocent smile. “Just girl talk,” she calls over to him, then turning back to me she adds, “Did you know that Depp has a movie coming out this year? Chocolat. It’s based on some book. He’s playing a hot Gypsy. I would so fuck a hot-Gypsy Johnny.”
“Well, New Year’s Eve guy, Ash, is not a Gypsy, he’s an actor.”
“Ew.”
“Johnny Depp’s an actor!” I protest.
“Johnny Depp’s a star, totally different.”
I laugh and shake my head. “This guy’s also a great singer and he rides a motorcycle.”
“Wait . . .” Traci leans back on her heels. “Are you still seeing him?”
“Yeah.” The music changes to the Chili Peppers’ “Californication.” “He’s kind of my boyfriend.”
“Shut up!” This time she smacks me on the shoulder. It’s a playful slap, but it still kinda hurts. “Is he here?”
“No.” I swallow and look away. “He wasn’t able to make it, but he says that if I invite him again he’ll make sure to be here.”
“Definitely invite him.” She links her arm with mine and starts leading me off the wings of the stage. Without even asking I know she’s taking me to the bar. I glance back just as Brad steps back inside. An image spontaneously pops into my mind—Brad reaching out to me, drawing me to him, kissing my hair one more time, taking my hand, leading me somewhere else to something . . . better. But instead he lifts his hand in a quiet motion of farewell. As Traci pulls me into the bar, I see him step through a door, the word Exit lit up above it in glaring red neon.
But then of course he’s not going to stay here. He has someone to go home to. Someone who loves him. What must that be like?
“When I meet this guy,” Traci says, bringing my focus back to her as we burst through the employee door into the club, “if I think he looks like Johnny, too, can we talk about the possibility
of a threeway?”
“You know, I’m not that into threeways,” I admit. Several of the people here approach us with congratulations and praise, but both Traci and I manage to disentangle ourselves from them quickly.
“You only say that because you’ve never tried it,” she says once it’s just us again.
“Oh, I’ve done it a few times.”
Traci does a quick double take. “You have?”
“Yeah, but—” I’m interrupted by some guy asking if we’re selling CDs. We direct him to the other side of the club, where one of Traci’s roommates is peddling them for five bucks a pop. “This is what I’ve learned about threeways,” I say, picking up the thread. “If a guy you’re hooking up with asks if another guy can join in, your hookup guy is most likely gay; you’re just there so he can pretend he’s not. And if it’s two women and one guy . . . well that’s a little better, but only because when the guy turns his attention to the other woman you can just take a break and use the time to read a book or something.”
Traci stops, five feet from the bar. “You didn’t pause to read a book in the middle of a threeway.”
“Have you read Neil Gaiman’s Sandman? It’s, like, impossible to put down.”
Traci blinks and then throws her arms around me. “I fucking love you.”
“I fucking love you, too, Traci,” I reply, keeping my voice light. But the truth is, I’m not entirely comfortable with this conversation. Not because we’re talking about sex, but because I’m talking about Melody’s life as if it was my own, and I don’t want it to be my own. If I claim these experiences, don’t I have to claim the others?
Traci pulls me up to the bar and bangs her hand against it to get the bartender’s attention. If anyone else had done that they’d be ignored at best and thrown out at worst, but Traci—with her tousled auburn hair and bright blue heavily mascaraed eyes and skull-and-crossbones necklace—is one of those people who can make obnoxious look cute.
